


Holidays Bring Out the Best

by undertheimperius



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undertheimperius/pseuds/undertheimperius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left together to babysit Adam Young, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, etc etc, Aziraphale and Crowley learn that the holidays truly do bring out the best in people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holidays Bring Out the Best

When Mrs. Young had shown up outside of the newly reconstructed rare bookshop that weekend before Christmas, her eyes frantic and her skinny wrists already bedecked with a multitudinous array of shopping bags, Aziraphale found it impossible to turn away her pleas of, "will you please watch over Adam while I'm in town? It'll only be a few hours or so, maybe more… Anathema said you and your friend – that Mr. Crowley – would understand him and be the best to take care of him." A chord of sympathy twanged in his heart for the poor woman; he could hardly begin to imagine the amount of stress living with and raising the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness would put upon your everyday run-of-the-mill normal mother. Just the thought of the amount of power the child had demonstrated the previous summer made the angel queasy with ideas of what he could do if one simply relinquished his reins. He nodded and took the hand of the boy, consoling his mother by ensuring her he would take him to the demon's flat and that everything would be just peachy.

And so Aziraphale found himself walking down the streets of London with a blond twelve-year-old Antichrist in tow.

...

When Aziraphale had shown up outside of the tall posh apartment complex that belonged to a certain overtly stylish demon and jabbed at the intercom's button, flooding said demon's flat with the incessant buzzing of an electronic summon*, Crowley was far from as accommodating as the angel had been to the woman. He had pretended not to hear the paging of the intercom for a few moments, allowing it to flit through his ears like cheerful background music as he misted his plants, but had to concede to allow his Arrangement partner inside when sporadic blessings became interspersed with the ringing.

And so Crowley found himself with a flat full of angel and Satan Spawn.

...

The evening had begun rather pleasantly. Crowley had introduced Adam to the lush verdant plants that grew in pots around the perimeter of the flat and instructed him to speak to them if he so wished.

Adam took that suggestion quite literally and was currently engaged in a heated conversation with a fern. As the child's voice grew increasingly louder due to his becoming increasingly impatient with the lack of audible response from the plant, the leaves began to quiver with the Fear of Boy.

"So how'd you get stuck with him?" asked Crowley from over the rim of his wineglass, peering at the angel who was seated next to him through his sunglasses.

Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat and left his own glass untouched on the coffee table. " _We_  got stuck with him, dear boy. Mrs. Young mentioned you, too, you know. The poor woman had Christmas shopping to do, and you know how busy the shops get at this time of year… I couldn't let her bring him along."

The demon smirked slightly, tilting his head back and swallowing the contents of his glass before refilling it with the deep burgundy liquid. "The commercialization of Christmas is my favorite. You get to see the humans act the way they want to with hardly any prodding, and yet it's all delectably terrible." The idea of packing as many sales as possible into the few days before Christmas Eve was, admittedly, his. It drew out the true animalistic and selfish nature of humans that could only be seen so perfectly on one other day, and that was Black Friday. It was truly a delight to watch since he hardly had to lift a finger to add a delicious layer of tarnish to souls all over the world.

The angel fixed Crowley with a withering stare – well, as withering as a divine entity could muster, which probably wasn't saying much – and crossed his arms over his tartan-clad chest. "You're horrible, really, exploiting humans like that."

Crowley simply grinned his snake-like smile and took another gulp of wine. "Thank you, you're too kind. I'm simply allowing them to take full advantage of their natural free will. What is it that your lot says? It's ineffable? Leave humans to their own devices and they'll destroy each other."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to retort, but closed it just as quickly. A faint smoky odor was quickly permeating the flat. "Do you-?" He didn't have time to finish his question before the demon was up on his snakeskin-covered feet and pouncing on the child who was staring with wide blue eyes at what used to be a fern but was now a flaming mass of charred leaflets.

Crowley couldn't tell whether he should be scandalized or pleased. Instead, he simply shoved a hand into his hair with as much frustration as he could muster and pointed an accusatory finger at the angel who was now squirming uncomfortably on the cushy leather sofa. "You keep a better eye on him."

Aziraphale waved his fingers, miracling the burning bush into a pleasant pot of azaleas and downed the contents of his previously-ignored wineglass.

...

A few hours later, Aziraphale was racing after the blond devil child. His thick blond curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat – something he had not thought possible – and his cheeks were flushed were exertion. Keeping him entertained was much more of a difficult task than he had thought it would be. Crowley's cabinets, which probably had never seen food in all of their existence, were now stocked with gummy fruit treats and jars of peanut butter while burnt globules of cheese stuck to frying pan that were stacked haphazardly in a sink that had quite likely never been used to clean anything.

"Dear boy, some help?" gasped the angel, his eyes wild and searching and frantic as he chased the demon seed around the living room. Adam had decided to entertain himself by playing "keep the miracled football away from the angel" and dodging in between furniture. Goodness, was it hard to keep the little bugger in place; he could only begin to imagine how Mrs. Young did it every day of her life, especially when he was younger.

Crowley lounged on a safe where he had deposited himself after he lost one of his favorite plants. He had been planning on parading that one around his flat sometime in the next week despite the fact that it was thriving; such a threat would force all of the other plants to grow as if the sterile white apartment were the Amazonian rainforest. Now, his plan was ruined. He would have to find a different plant to slaughter for sacrifice.

The demon had decided that the only way to properly survive babysitting the little brat would be to get himself rightly pissed, preferably on something awfully expensive. For that very reason, he was currently drinking directly from a bottle of some sort of strange ancient liqueur that never seemed to empty.

"I took care o' 'im when 'e came into this world. 'e's your job now, angel," Crowley slurred, taking a deep healthy swig from the bottle unceremoniously. Aziraphale looked positively haggard, so the demon extended his vice in his direction, offering a sip.

Finally, Adam accepted defeat and was sulking in an armchair in front of the television, flicking aimlessly through the channels. "I don't see why Mum didn't leave me with Wensleydale, or Brian, or Pepper, even. We would've been fine. We wouldn't 've started any trouble."

For some reason, Aziraphale found this hard to believe. If the town gossip in Tadfield was anything to go by, the danger of Them was magnified a hundred fold when they were together. He wrested the bottle from Crowley's hands and took a drink, nearly choking as it scalded his throat.

The demon regarded the old worn label on the bottle with a look of interest, lowering his sunglasses momentarily to stare at the words with his yellow eyes, staring intently as if his ability to decipher the odd faded label was directly related to the intensity with which he stared.

"You know you'll have to sober up before his mother gets here," Aziraphale chided, taking the bottle back and drinking once again.

"Bugger-all," Crowley croaked, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the sofa, allowing the alcohol to leave his body.

...

Within a few hours, Adam had fallen asleep in a curled ball on his armchair, the only sound coming from him now a quiet and peaceful snoring. Crowley had commandeered the remote just as soon as the child closed his eyes, but it was Aziraphale who chose what they were going to watch.

The demon sat with the remote in his hand, pretending as if he had some sort of control over the situation, although the program that was on the telly was far from anything he would have willingly selected. It was some sappy romantic and familial movie that most television channels liked to pipe through during the holidays as if the very wellbeing of mankind depended on it.

With all of the trouble that Crowley tried to stir in the hearts of all of the humans he encountered, it probably did.

The angel was seated next to him, their legs flush and their shoulders touching, a handkerchief balled into his fist and pressed against his lips to stifle the quiet sobs that the flick was eliciting from him. The couple on the screen had been reunited after a long absence and the man was holding the woman close against his body. In a low voice, he whispered into her ear, "I told you I would be home for Christmas," before tilting her head to his and pressing as stirring of a kiss as was possible for public television as the credits slowly rolled onto the screen.

"Angel?" Crowley inquired, taking off his sunglasses and setting them on the table as he regarded Aziraphale with an inquiring expression, a single dark eyebrow raised.

"That was absolutely beautiful," Aziraphale sniffed, wiping his eyes and nose on his handkerchief. "As much as you try to squash it, dear boy, there still exists light and hope in the hearts of men. The holiday season seems to bring it out in the best of them."

It took every ounce of discipline Crowley had in his body to keep from rolling his eyes at this comment. Well, more or less… The emotion with which Aziraphale was overcome was beginning to have strange effects on him; he felt an odd warmth spreading in his chest, and a stirring in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes, well, humans are equipped with free will," Crowley stated evenly, clearing his throat and stretching on the couch. "Which means they are just as capable of doing evil as they are of doing good. Er."

Aziraphale sighed deeply and rest his head on the demon's shoulder. "As are you, my dear," he murmured quietly, just low enough that Crowley couldn't hear him.

"What?" asked the demon.

"Nothing," replied the angel. He reached one hand onto the demon's chest and, closing his eyes, snuggled close.

"Ngk," said Crowley.

...

Crowley awoke to the familiar sound of the intercom buzzing through his flat. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep until he noticed that he had a lapful of angel he hadn't had previously. Adam was still curled in his armchair, thank the Lor- er, Prince of Darkness. He gently shoved Aziraphale off of his legs, much to the chagrin of the sleeping creature who groaned a sound of protest as he shrugged off sleep.

"Is it his mother?" he asked, still a bit groggy.

Crowley was already at his feet and peering through the security camera before unlocking the front door for the woman to come up. "Well, it certainly isn't Hastur."

This made Aziraphale's eyes grow wide with shock, but the demon's grin quickly dispelled any and all fear he had been feeling. "You old snake," he growled, hugging a pillow close to his chest.

"Guilty as charged," he hissed, pulling open the front door as the boy's mother entered the flat, a single bag in her hand.

"Successful day shopping, Mrs. Young?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale went to wake the sleeping boy.

"Oh, yes, it was lovely," she replied, nodding enthusiastically, "but the shoppers are like animals, practically wrestling each other over the season's newest toys!"

Crowley's grin couldn't possibly be more pleased.

Adam slowly rose to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his tiny fist. "Mum?" he asked, trudging towards her. She enveloped him in a tight hug, a cheerful expression on her face. "I do hope he wasn't much trouble," she said, directing her attention once again to the two adults in the room.

"No trouble at all," was the demon's response since Aziraphale was finding it rather difficult to lie.

Mrs. Young grasped her son's – well,  _adopted_  son's – shoulder and turned him around to face the two men. "Say thank you and goodnight," urged the woman.

"Thank you and goodnight," said Adam.

Ushering the boy out of the door, she extended the shopping bag that she had looped around her wrist towards Aziraphale. "Consider it an early Christmas gift, you two. Enjoy. Goodnight."

Once the door clicked closed, Aziraphale and Crowley returned to their seat on the couch, the mysterious bag now in their hands.

"Wonder what it is," said the angel.

"Open it," said the demon.

Aziraphale dug his hand into the bag and pulled out two wrapped packages, one squishy and square and labeled "Mr. Aziraphale" and the other oblong and heavy and labeled "Mr. Crowley."

The demon tore the wrapping of his package and was delighted to find an expensive old bottle of port. "The woman's got good taste." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could rescind them, for now, seated next to him on the plush sofa, was a delighted angel wrapping a woolen tartan scarf around his neck.

"What?" Aziraphale asked innocently. "Tartan's always stylish."

...

The two had decided to open the bottle of wine and were gently nursing two small glasses of it. Aziraphale had no intention of getting drunk, no matter how tempting Crowley tried to be, and the demon was in no mood to drink himself into a stupor by himself.

Setting his empty glass down on the coffee table in front of them, Aziraphale rest his head once again against Crowley's shoulder. The demon regarded the angel with a vaguely confused face before slinging his arm around his waist and pulling him ever so slightly closer.

"He's actually not all that unpleasant," murmured the blond absently.

Crowley, eyebrows furrowed, grimaced. "When he's asleep."

"Oh, pish," chided the angel, his eyes fluttering closed, his hand tracing faint patterns on the demon's chest, moving completely of its own accord. "We've done a good service, you know, watching him while his mother was out. The dear woman managed to get her shopping done in time, thanks to us, and now that family will have a lovely Christmas. Good will towards men, and that. You weren't that terrible, too; perhaps the holidays brought out the go-"

"If you say anything else about the bloody holidays bringing out the good in me – which, I assure you, is impossible since nothing good exists in me since I am a demon and therefore the embodiment of everything that is  _not_  good – I'll have to kick you out. Into the cold. In the snow. And miracle your new scarf into something that's not tartan, just to be spiteful."

Aziraphale winced inwardly.

Crowley huffed a sigh.

Aziraphale was now regarding him with a pensive expression that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "What is it you want, angel?" he growled.

The blond didn't answer for a moment, for what felt like a long moment. Instead, he continued to stare, his eyes not betraying for a second what it was that was coursing through his mind. Tentatively, hesitantly, he lifted a hand and traced a finger along the demon's jawline. "To show you that there  _is_  some good in you, no matter  _what_  you say," he breathed.

Crowley felt his pulse quicken under his skin – curse the limitations of a human body – as Aziraphale leaned closer, closer, so dangerously _closer_ , until there wasn't any chance of getting any closer and pressed his lips gently against his in a feather soft kiss. His eyes widened in shock, taken aback by the angel's forwardness, but even more surprised at how  _right_  this felt. When the pressure against his lips lessened, a sign that the other was about to pull away, he raised his free hand to the back of the blond's neck and held him in place, leaning further into the kiss with a tad bit more force.

At this, Aziraphale released a delectable little coo and inched forward, making sure that there was no other possible way for them to get closer in any other regard, pressing his body flush against the demon's, his hands trailing absently to bury themselves in his thick dark hair.

Crowley nipped his lower lip, then ran his tongue against the tender red flesh, teasing and begging the angel for an entrance that he readily gave. They fell into a frenzied fight for dominance, tongues fencing and exploring, tasting as they discovered just what movements drew forth tiny sounds from each other. Crowley nudged Aziraphale forward until he was lying on his back on the sofa and tugged haphazardly at the sweater the angel wore tucked into his trousers. The blond wriggled in response, moving so as to make the process of disrobing him easier, fingers scrabbling to divest the demon at the same time.

The dark haired one doubted that there existed a moment in which he hated tartan more than he did just then. There was just too much bloody fabric lying in the way, not enough skin…

Aziraphale, finally successful in pushing the demon's shirt to the floor, tugged earnestly at his trousers, pulling them down his slender hips and rubbing his thumbs across the line of his hipbones as he did so. Crowley hissed into the angel's mouth, capturing him once again in a heated kiss, pushing the obstructing fabric off of his shoulders, desperate for skin on skin contact.

Once they were both free of their clothing, Crowley leaned into the angel and, breaking the kiss for a moment, trailed his mouth down his jaw and throat, teeth nipping and tongue lathing here and there, all the while drawing the most tantalizing sounds.

"Oh, dear boy," Aziraphale breathed, his fingers buried in the demon's hair.

Crowley smirked and slithered up to capture the angel's mouth once again. "Doesss that feel niccce?" he hissed.

Aziraphale caught the darker haired man's lip with his teeth, biting softly before plundering his mouth with bruising intensity. "You're hissing," he gasped out once he pulled away.

"Sssorry," was the demon's reply, although he didn't sound sorry at all.

Feeling a distinct hardness pressing up against him, Crowley ground his hips against the angel, earning a moan in response to his actions that spurred him to repeating them.

Aziraphale hooked one leg around the demon's hip, pulling him closer for more of the delicious friction.

Bodies slick with sweat, skin sliding, mouths crushing – there was nothing to call it but a desperate  _need_  for more of each other.

" _Please_ ," moaned the blond, slipping his hand between them to guide the demon's hardness to his entrance.

"Are you sssure, angel?" asked Crowley, although he had no idea what he would do if the angel said no; he wanted just as badly, just as much, and wasn't sure if he would be able to stop if met with no.

" _Yes_."

Crowley needed no more prompting. Holding tightly to the angel, making sure to be as careful and gentle as possible, he pushed into him and had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out at the sensations that pulsed through his body, at the feeling of utmost unity between the two of them.

Together, they established a gentle rhythm that grew erratic in its intensity until the two were left in a tangle of limbs and gasping moans and  _oh_  delicious completion, finally collapsing into each other in exhaustion.

Everything just felt so  _right_.

...

Morning light streamed in through the windows. Crowley tugged a sheet over his face in a vain attempt to block it out. What the fabric did not do, however, was shut out the mouth-watering scent of freshly brewed coffee from the kitchen. Grudgingly, he got to his feet and trudged into the kitchen where stood the angel in a pair of Crowley's pajamas that he did not know he owned. That was because he  _had_  not owned them. Were he to go into his wardrobe, he would realize that a pair of his favorite silk pajamas had been miracled into a cozy-looking tartan flannel.

For once, however, he didn't mind, mainly because Aziraphale looked  _happy_  and…

_Aziraphale._

The previous night had been some sort of divine experience that he didn't even know he deserved to feel. And now, the very same angel that made him feel so whole was standing in his kitchen in his bare feet, frying up some eggs and slathering peanut butter on toast.

"Hope you like breakfast," said the blond, setting plates on the kitchen table Crowley had only purchased to maintain the look of the sleek apartment; it had never once been used. "I just used what you had lying around."

That was funny because Crowley could not recall ever having eggs or even coffee lying around.

"It smells lovely," was his response as he took a seat across from the angel. This whole situation… being with Aziraphale… everything felt so perfect that he hardly had anything to say.

"What's wrong?" prodded the blond, watching as the demon simply stared at the plate of food in front of him.

Crowley worried his lip before lifting his eyes to regard the angel with a look of contemplation. With a quick flick of his hand, he miracled a small package that he placed next to the angel's plate.

"What's this?" asked Aziraphale.

"Happy Christmas," murmured Crowley.

The angel unwrapped the package to find a pair of knit woolen mittens made to match the scarf Mrs. Young had bought him. It was true; tartan was always stylish.

A warm grin spread across Aziraphale's face. "See? I told you…"

"What's that?" asked Crowley as he now tucked into his breakfast with gusto.

Aziraphale smiled smugly. "The holidays truly do bring out the best."

 

 

Footnotes:

* Incessant in comparison to other sounds humans are accustomed to hearing, such as horns beeping on the M25 motorway. Generally pleasant when compared to the angry noise of flies that simply permeates whatever section of Hell is so lucky to be housing Beelzebub at that particular moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I wrote this fic a couple of years ago and decided to move it over here to AO3 with my gradual shift away from FF.net. Hope you enjoy it! Please review so that I can learn how to better improve my writing :]]


End file.
